


Jess

by lollyflop



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M, Literati
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollyflop/pseuds/lollyflop
Summary: From his point of view.





	1. Chapter 1

You’ll like Rory—she’s so smart, and she and her mom are so funny. She goes to this private school but Lorelai doesn’t pay for it, her mom—Rory’s grandmother, I mean—does. Rory _reads_ a lot. He wrapped up his ramble with a significant look.

He noticed I liked to read. _How touching._

I sighed, shifting on the bench seat of Luke’s fumey old truck. I felt awkward enough being forced to play nice with the locals, but the thought of being shoved towards a plasticine friendship with the town golden child was almost unbearable.

And music, Luke added after a thought. All kinds of music that I don’t get.

What, like radio stuff?

He chuckled. Not Rory. She sneaks and buys these weird records for Lane—Lane’s mom is religious.

The wind whipping through the cracked windows sucked away the rest of the conversation and I felt myself relax, watching the little Connecticut houses come and go. It was dark out. Even with the streetlights, it was so much darker than anyplace I’d been in the city. The sky actually went black at night, peppered with stars I could see best from the little bridge across the pond. It was the one thing I could (then) credit to Stars Hollow.

We pulled up to a two-story blue house, trimmed in white and unselfconscious cheer. It was just on the quirky side of picturesque, elegant bones that belied its ramshackle spirit. Or maybe I’m remembering it tinted through the lens of knowing its two occupants.

Lorelai greeted us with a barrage of words, and I slipped past while she and Luke gossiped just above a whisper about me. On the mantel, I saw a picture of Rory smiling over her shoulder in front of a birthday cake and another one of she and her mom pointing at a llama.

I turned away and they steered me into the kitchen just in time to witness the bizarre tableau of a husband and wife singing the praises of a lemon. _Jesus._

When Lorelai called Rory to dinner, I actually sighed with relief.

I looked around the corner of her door frame to see her sitting at one of those old clamshell Macs, her spine straight and proper as she called, “Coming!”

I stepped in as she turned in her chair, her lips taut in a polite gesture of welcome. “Hey,” she greeted, splitting the tense pull of her mouth into a genuine, warm smile.

I barked a greeting and she said, “I’m Rory.” Yeah, I figured. She nodded, lips going tight again. “Nice to meet you,” she offered, her voice stretching high with her polite attempt to squash the awkwardness.

I willfully pushed the baby yellow walls and dolls–my god, the dolls–from my mind as my eyes combed over her books. So many books. Some I knew intimately, some, just strangers in a pell-mell clutch of paper. As I scanned the spines, I felt a foreign kind of fuzziness in my chest.

Wow… aren’t we _Hooked on Phonics_?

“Oh, I read a lot,” she said, her words clipped at the end. No apology in it, just a truth. “Do you read?”

I saw _Howl_.

I took _Howl_ in my hands, a lie sitting bitter on my tongue. Not much.

“I could loan you that if you want it,” she offered without hesitation. Softer, she added, “It’s great.”

I put it down, burying any sign of interest. No thanks. “Well, if you change your mind,” she offered limply, hands clasped in front of her. She turned her body to follow me as I stepped around her room.

All at once, there was her mother, inserting herself with two bowls of chaos. I’d forgotten all of them, and suddenly, they were all there, moving and bustling and chattering past the door. It was all too much, too Doris Day.

Dutifully, Rory called, “Be right there!”

But I was pulling back the lace curtains, examining her window. So do these open?

She explained that yes, I just had to push. I moved to follow her instruction. Great, shall we?

A hesitation in her voice, a delicate uncertainty creasing her brow. “Shall we what?”

Bail.

Her mouth agape. “N-no,” she scoffed. I felt a clench in my chest. Why?

“Because,” she laughed a little. “It’s Tuesday night in Stars Hollow. There’s nowhere to bail to. The 24-hour mini-mart just closed 20 minutes ago.”

She _was_ funny. So we’ll walk around or sit on a bench and stare at our shoes or hold hands by the lake and I’ll touch your skin, Jesus it’s so pale and painted with a watercolor stroke of blush that I want to see happen over and over and–

She was laughing, managing to look only just barely uncomfortable before her expression morphed into something like a gentle sass. “Look, Sookie just made a ton of really great food and I’m starving and though it may not seem like it right at this moment, it’s gonna be fun,” she tried, making gestures like a smarmy man in a self-help seminar. She punctuated it with hands clasped to point, “Trust me.”

I don’t even know you, I lied.

“Well don’t I look trustworthy?”

Oh yes. The lamplight shining low in her eyes—so fucking blue. I would believe anything you said.

Maybe, I lied.

Her face cracked open into a smile that slammed through my chest and wrapped its blazing fingers around my heart. “Okay, let’s eat!” She swung on her feet and bustled out of the room. I would learn later that her excitement was two-fold: she wasn’t lying about starving, and she wasn’t lying about genuinely, actually, deeply, honestly, really wanting me to join her.

I watched her go. I heard my brain saying I want to be with this girl, whatever it takes. I’ve got to. My eyes swept down to her feet and up her form as she turned to ask over her shoulder, “Do you want a soda?”

I pocketed _Howl_.

The refrigerator was full of junk and soda. I heard cackling as I pulled out a Heineken and headed out the back door.

Finally popping the cap on the railing must’ve masked the sound of Lorelai following me outside. The ol’ that’s my beer routine and then a stiff attempt at a heart to heart. So I leaned on shitty defense mechanisms. And it worked exactly as well as being an uncalled-for ass possibly could. So I bailed.

  

* * *

  

Luke pushed me into the fucking lake because I stole three dollars to buy lunch. I didn’t tell him this. Wiping lake water out of my eyes, I sighed. It’s time to get a job, I guess.

 

* * *

 

Waiting at the bus stop in her school uniform, reading a book to pass the time. Dawn Powell. I caught her making a confused face, flipping ahead several pages, then nodding to herself. She was rereading a book at the bus stop to pass the time.

_Marry me, woman._ The thought slipped into my mind, unbidden. But it made me smile.

 

* * *

 

Luke stormed in, throwing off-brand Nicorette in my lap. He rattled off accusations and demands, but something in my brain drew a big, red circle around Lorelai Gilmore.

Where are you going?

Out.

In my foul mood, I almost missed her. But when I saw her, I had no choice. I stepped in double-time to catch her.

“Hey yourself,” she greeted, not losing a step. What are you doing out here? “I needed something for school. What about you?”

Oh yeah, I agreed. Same thing.

“So… that was quite a disappearing act you pulled the other night.” I grumbled, fishing in my pockets. “Too cool for school, huh?”

Yes. That is me. I started a coin trick.

“What are you doing?” Oh, this? Nothing. Just another little disappearing act.

She wasn’t wowed. “Little tip? If you ever want to speak to me again, don’t pull that outta my ear.”

Nose off limits? “Anyplace you wouldn’t naturally find a coin,” she deadpanned. “Let’s leave it that way.”

I nodded, and moved to start walking again. I asked what she was up to, wishing for a little of her time. “I have some homework to finish,” she answered, stepping all over my hope.

Okay, then I’ll leave you this last little trick. I produced  _Howl_ from my back pocket.

A little smile. “You bought a copy? I told you I’d lend you mine.”

It is yours.

She stopped. “You stole my book.” She sounded affronted.

Borrowed it.

“Okay, that’s not called a trick. That’s called a felony.”

I just wanted to put some notes in the margins for you. I just wanted you to have this piece of me, to know this part of me. I just wanted to share the one thing in this world that I give a shit about, the thing I know, I know, I know that–if pressed–would be the one person or thing in the world you’d call your lover. I just wanted to think about you sprawled put on your bed reading my handwriting, your brow furrowed as you read each line, as you reread them through my eyes. As your lips formed a little pout of introspection.

Her face crinkled up. “What?” She took it from me and thumbed to a page. Her eyes scanned it and understanding smoothed over her expression. “You’ve read this before.”

I nodded. About forty times, I guessed.

She was smiling. “I thought you said you didn’t read much.”

Well… what is much? G’night, Rory. I was leaving.

“Goodnight, Dodger.”

It stumped me for a second and I felt my steps turn sludgy slow. _Dodger?_

Her little smirk punched me in the gut. Still holding Howl in her hands, she challenged me, “Figure it out.”

She turned to go and it fell in place. Oliver Twist.

She spun around with a smile, still leafing through the book. She nodded slightly and headed home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bracebridge Dinner

She saw me in my Luke costume. I saw her in her society costume, a debutante in a fluffy white dress with a ratty denim jacket and a cheeseburger.

Our eyes met and I saw her amusement. She liked my little pranks, it occured to me.

Okay, Gilmore. Try this one.

* * *

 

I was reading on a bench until I saw her approach Doose’s. I hopped up, leaned against a lamppost and waited.

She looked up, her eyes shining blue in the afternoon sun. I smirked and I watched her consider the chalk outline on the pavement. She knew.

 

* * *

 

Should you be standing out here all alone? I hear this corner is dangerous.

“I’m fine.”

Feeling succinct?

“Pretty much,” she grumbled.

Did I do something to offend?

She tried to play it off, but she was clearly annoyed. Finally, she cracked. “You might want to ask that same question to Luke.”

Interesting.

“You've got this whole town down on him.”

Hm. How did I do that?

“You know how you did that,” she bit out.

I tried a little sarcasm, but Rory pointed to the chalk outline beneath us. Ah. What about it?

She went to that stupid town meeting and the circus was giving Luke shit, as if he was responsible for me. And something about lettuce proceeds.

Well, I didn’t know that. I’ve just been trying to make this candy fluff town livable, tolerable. And maybe it’s possible that I was trying to impress—

“And now Luke's a pariah and it's all because of you! What a shock, you don't care about any of this,” she spat.

I didn’t say that.

She wanted me to go, but didn’t want me to go. She accused me of not caring about Luke and being a bad impersonation of Holden Caulfield. “He’s done a lot for my mom and a lot for me, and I don’t like to see him attacked,” she said. “Okay, second wind over.”

I didn't know they were coming down so hard on him.

“Funny, I never pegged you as clueless, my mistake.”

Okay. I get it. No, no, I do, I get it. So did you at least think it was funny?

She started to deny it, but her lips wouldn’t hold the lie. “That is _so_ not the point."

Ah, you thought it was funny. Of course you did.

But then there was that wall of meat. Boyfriend?

“Of course.”

Something in me sank. You didn’t say.

“Okay, see you around.”

Seems to turn out that way, doesn’t it?

 

* * *

  

I fixed the toaster. I showed Luke that I fixed the toaster. That I demonstrated this in front of Rory was not coincidence.

She smiled at me.

 

* * *

 

I shouldn’t have done it. I knew it would be a thing, but I wasn’t wholly in a mindset to be thinking long-term in that moment. Mostly, it just occurred to me that he seemed like somebody who would like Chuck Presby, and that he might let Chuck get another whack in.

So I swung.

 

* * *

  

My eyes caught her the moment I stepped through the door. I almost thought to say hello, but of course he was there, no doubt telling her all about The Presby Incident.

So I waved.

It was petty, but I was rewarded with his annoyance and her blush. Worth it all, even whatever the white stuff was in the yellow soup.

 

* * *

 

I hesitated.

It was almost criminal that she should go alone, but I wasn’t sure how she would react, knowing that I tried to punch her idiot boyfriend and all.

A the carriage started to go, I did it. I jumped in.

“What are you doing?”

Well, I heard it was two to a sleigh–no more, no less. And I don’t exactly know why the thought of you alone in a one horse open sleigh made me itch to sit beside you, but here we go.

“You could've hurt yourself.”

I could jump out if you want. Please don’t want that.

She said it didn’t matter to her and I asked if she was mad at me–of course she was.

“You got into a fight with Dean,” she said, stating it as a fact rather than an accusation.

Dean? As if I don’t remember him, as if his existence isn’t a thorn in my side. He’s still your boyfriend?

“Okay, you can jump out now.”

I wasn’t fighting him. I was fighting that jerk–

“You were fighting Chuck Presby?”

Yeah.

“Oh, he is a jerk.”

This whole town is weird and full of jerks. Present company excluded.

“Then why are you still here?” She reasoned, “I mean, school's out and you don't like it here, so why don't you just go home?”

My mom didn’t want me to, Rory.

“I don't believe that,” she said. I knew she couldn’t imagine a world in which a mother wouldn’t want to see her only child for Christmas. “Did Luke say she didn't want you to?”

Luke told me it was his idea that I should stay. It wasn't his idea. I wasn’t going to let that one hang. That’s good. Your snowman. Snow _woman_ , actually.

I saw delight. “You know which one is ours?”

Of course. Every other snowman was the Frosty variety, hat, carrot, coal. But not Bjork. She had personality.

“But everyone thinks the one on the end is gonna be the winner,” she grumbled.

Really? It's so overdone.

“I agree.”

You should win.

“No argument.”

What do you and Dean talk about?

She fumbled. Does he know Bjork? I bet he thinks she sounds like an accident in a silverware factory.

“I've played him some stuff,” she hedged.

So a student-teacher thing? Does he teach you about football and Auto Trader? No, really, I'm curious. What do you guys talk about?

She floundered. “Everything.” She tried again, “Just everything, tons of stuff, whatever.”

It’s just in the brief, non-pugilistic time I’ve spent with him, he seems kind of wrong for you. Like he doesn’t read for fun or even maybe when forced. I suspect he un-ironically owns Nickelback CDs. I’m pretty sure I heard him call tacos “ _exotic_ ”. He just doesn't seem like your kind of guy.

“Well, he is my kind of guy. He's exactly my kind of guy.”

Okay, I guess I don’t know him that well. Or you’re satisfied with anything warm and flat to lie on, like a lizard digesting a cockroach. That just seemed like more of my bit than hers.

I considered Rory again.

 

* * *

 

I stole a glance at her. She smiled. I looked away, but let my eyes slip sideways at her again. She glanced away.

A little self-satisfaction flickered through my brain. Maybe I was right about her, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will include scenes that weren't in the show. For anyone concerned, this is obviously all from Jess's point of view, so of course Dean is going to sound not-great.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard in Stars Hollow and A-Tisket, A-Tasket

I did not peg Rory for the kind who would have a friend like that. If I were the sort to call someone a pistol, I might’ve dubbed Paris a .38 special.

Any opportunity to rib Luke was a good opportunity. But Paris was serious. And that’s the most fun that a guy can have. Rory practically dragged her out of the diner.

 

* * *

  

She found it.

She was standing in front of it, looking fairly dumbfounded. I bet if you burn a few, they’ll make you mayor. Finally turn you into a festival with Pat Buchanan, Jerry Falwell, Kathie Lee Gifford…

“Bye.”

Aw, come on. It’s a little funny, when you think about it. Because it’s so wrong and backwards and not you. Anyone who knew you at all would know–that’s not you.

“No, being the poster girl for censorship is not a little funny. The only videos not behind that curtain are _Bambi_ and _Dumbo_. I mean, they actually had a meeting earlier about whether or not _Babe_ should be behind the curtain so as not to offend people who keep kosher,” she rambled.

Crazy Stars Hollow.

“And where did they even find that stupid picture?”

Oh no, the picture’s good. I leaned in to assure her. It’s the people who are stupid.

“I’m never gonna be able to leave my house again.”

The prospect of Rory lying low made me distinctly uncomfortable.

“I can’t look at it anymore.” She was going.

I stood still, letting my focus sit on her awkward school photo. Relax. I don’t think it’ll be around very long.

She turned and looked at me. “Why?”

Just a guess. I started walking.

A sharp call of my name.

“Come back here.”

I’d love to, but why?

She was walking towards me. “I’ll give you an eggroll.”

An offer to share food from a Gilmore. Well blow me down.

“What did you do?”

Shrug. Nonchalant. Nothin’ much. Just wanted to make sure whoever rented _Dumbo_ or _Bambi_ gets a little surprise.

Her doe eyes. “What kind of a surprise?” A little smile. “What did you do?”

You owe me an eggroll.

 

* * *

 

I saw him approach her, and it turned my stomach a little. As soon as he ducked to kiss her, I jammed an elbow into the display of chips. Sorry to intrude, I lied.

The meatloaf asked why. I gave a flimsy excuse.

Rory looked genuinely embarrassed. “Oh.”

I met her eyes. Not that that’s not an appropriate place–

He gave me the glue, I gave them the brush-off.

But of course I circled around.

A little cry of surprise. Maybe some annoyance.

Sorry. Two for one sale.

Curiosity prickled between my ears, and I found myself leaning against the lamppost, waiting. She finally emerged, looking left, then right. With a sigh, she took off towards home with a petite little basket in her white-knuckled grip. Mental note.

 

* * *

 

I didn’t set out to do it. I figured a quick appearance and a bid or two would be a great laugh. But he got so angry, and it just got more and more fun. Seeing him run numbers in his head almost made me crack a smile. (I mean, I didn’t think I set out to do it, but I did leave Luke’s with $143 in my pocket.)

Either way, what I definitely didn’t set out to do was to have his anger turn from me to Rory.

So, shall we?

To her credit, she stood her ground, explaining what seemed like a pretty simple situation: of course Rory was going to follow the almighty Star’s Hollow tradition. And that Taylor would probably string her by her toes was a point well made. But he wasn’t buying it.

Dude, calm down. It’s not like she’s shippin’ off to ‘Nam.

He actually told her no.

“What do you think’s gonna happen?”

Yeah–I think I’d like to hear this one, also.

He decided to pout and stalk off. She followed him. “Please, don’t walk away like that,” I heard her plead.

 

* * *

  

You know, there’s nothing there.

She sighed. “Yes, I know.”

You going after him?

“Not right now.”

Shall we?

Another sigh, a little wobble of resignation. “Fine, come on.”

Not the enthusiasm that I was–wasn’t–hoping for. Where do you wanna eat?

“Don’t care,” she said, with a sassy flippance.

Okay.

“Where are you going?”

Thought you didn’t care.

“I’m not jumping in the lake.”

What? I laughed. No underwater dining, got it.

“Now what?”

Sit.

“Here?” Yup. “On the bridge? That’s where we’re gonna eat?”

I pretended to dust off my knees as I let my legs hang off the bridge. I like this place.

“Wow. A place in Stars Hollow you actually like,” she said, taking a seat, casting a glance my way. “I’m stunned.”

It’s got some good memories. See over there? That’s where Luke pushed me in.

“Ah,” she said, keeping her face straight. “So why’d you do it? Outbid Dean like that.”

I looked at my lap. I dunno. Started as a joke just to bug him, but he just go so mad and he’s so tall and he’s standing there all tall and mad and–rambling? Is this rambling?

“It wasn’t funny.”

If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t intend to do it. Does that make you feel better?

She stretched, nervous energy making her fidget. “I just don’t wanna be in a fight with Dean.”

I’m sorry about that, I told her, hoping I sounded as genuine as I felt. Wanna push me in a lake? It’s cathartic, I hear.

“Maybe in a little bit.”

Okay, the basket. I flipped open the lid while holding her eyes, but she dipped her gaze. I looked at the mismatched Tupperware. Wow. Not a single thing in here that I would remotely consider eating. I inspected a pale green tub of yellow and beige chunks.

“Well, I didn’t make it for you,” she reasoned. “I made it for Dean.”

I peeled the lid and caught a whiff of onion. And Dean would’ve eaten this?

Her face like a stone. “Yes,” she nodded. “He would have.”

I’ll rise to that challenge, Gilmore. I grabbed a spoon, cleared my throat for dramatic effect and tucked in. As soon as it was in my mouth, my mistake was apparent. This was old, this was sour, this was inedible.

A little smile on her face. I worked the mess around in my mouth. Dean is an idiot.

She bubbled with laughter. “Dean never would’ve fallen for that.”

I glanced over at her. She was smiling. Ah, ha ha. I spit it into the lake. No offense.

“None taken,” she laughed. “Sookie made that two weeks ago, maybe? We never cook and we never clean out our fridge, so you might be in moderate danger of food poisoning.”

I deserve it. I cast my eyes at her. Her smile didn’t fade, but she looked thoughtful. She opened a can of soda and offered it to me. I swished and spit, then took a sip. What’s the best thing you’ve read this month?

She looked surprised for half a second, but then excited. “ _Atonement_.”

What’s it about?

She launched into a description of the plot. Slowly, she turned to face me, her gestures more emphatic as she lost herself in this little world. The book didn’t sound like my cup of tea, but she looked really pleased when she finished with, “Not to give anything away, but the ending makes you sort of look back at everything that’s happened with a different eye. I think that’s exciting.”

I smiled at her, turning to tuck one leg up on the dock.

“How about you?”

I explained the basic premise of a biography I’d been reading, as well as why it was so interesting. She listened with her blue eyes moving over my face, reading my features like a murky poem yet to be understood. The weight of her attention set butterflies loose in my stomach. I gnawed at my lip to keep from grinning.

“I like it,” she said, nodding as if this were her final judgment. “I hate when biographies are too tied up in showing all the good parts. I always want to see a little underneath. See them stripped down just a little bit.”

I swallowed.

“Is that what you’re reading right now?”

I’ve actually been rereading _To Have and Have Not_.

“Urgh,” she grumbled.

Urgh rereading or urgh that book?

“Oh, no, I love rereading. I’ve been known to pass long pauses in conversations lately by skimming through _The Fountainhead_ again,” she laughed. “I mean urgh, Ernest Hemingway. I did three of the biggies and just struggled through them. I got a B on a book report on The Sun Also Rises and I just washed my hands of him forever.”

You’ve read _The Fountainhead_? You? And you won’t even give Hemingway a second shot?

“Oh, man, it’s one of my favorites,” she said. “I picked it up when I was ten, and–”

TEN?

“Yeah, but I didn’t understand a word of it, so I had to reread it when I was 15.”

I have yet to make it through it, I said, toying with a daisy on the side of the basket.

“Really? Try!” She insisted, “ _The Fountainhead_ is classic.”

Yeah, but she’s a political nut.

“Yeah, but nobody could write a 40-page monolog the way that she could.”

Okay, tomorrow I will try again with that Ayn Rand nonsense. And you will–

“Give the painful Ernest Hemingway another chance, yes,” she sighed. “I promise.”

You know, Ernest only has lovely things to say about you.

Her expression was uncertain. “Why are you only nice to me?”

That was out of left field. She spent so much time being indirect that when she went straight ahead, it was completely disarming.

“An hour ago, you were totally screwing with Dean, and now you’re totally nice to me,” she explained.

I scoffed. It’s the screwing with Dean that gets me here, to be nice to you.

She wiped her hands down her hips. “So,” she started, flicking her eyes to me, “it was a plan?”

I froze.

“The whole bidding on my basket. It was a plan.”

O-kay, I’m officially starving–

“And officially evasive.”

My cheeks were warm. Come on, I’ll get you a pizza.

“Answer my question,” she insisted, her expression serious.

Do you like pepperoni?

“Not going to, are you?” Exasperated.

I rambled.

“Okay, I give,” she sighed, standing and snagging the soda. “Let’s go.”

If you insist.

I went to grab the basket and a glint of silver caught my eye. She’d forgotten her bracelet. I picked it up and looked after her.

If she mentioned it, I knew I’d produce it from my pocket and surprise her. If she never mentioned it? I spun it on my finger.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, meats are really the only thing I consider acceptable. Aside from more cheese,” she explained. “I mean, I can get down with a good dessert pizza, but that’s obviously a completely different discussion.”

Where do you stand on fruit?

“Neutral in both cases.”

Fascinating, Gilmore. I folded a slice and took a bite. Her quizzical gaze unnerved me. What?

She looked at her pizza. “I’ve never seen anyone eat it that way.”

What? You’ve never been to New York?

She blinked. “Of course I have,” she shot back too fast. “I just–that’s weird.”

Folding is key. A good crust should be foldable, and it’s the best way to eat while walking. Plus, every bite seems like a double-decker this way.

“What’s your favorite class in school?”

I thought about it. Probably statistics.

She frowned. “Not English?”

Nooooo. They do well to barely even touch on the edge of a vague notion of “the classics”. I’ve read all of them already. Going to that class is torture. Do you know Becky Valentina? She actually asked if _Fahrenheit 451_ was a prediction of the future because kids are playing with those toy dog robots. I actually asked for a hall pass and walked right out of the building right then. I had to put in three hours at work just to clear my head.

“I can’t believe Luke would let you work on a school day,” Rory mumbled. “He saw me in the diner once when I was out getting over my tonsillectomy and he threw a coat over my head so Taylor wouldn’t report me for truancy.”

Oh, not the diner. I do odd jobs on the side for cash. Thus, the fancy basket and this delicacy before us.

Her lips pushed to one side. “Well, dessert is on me,” she said. “Ready?”

I tossed a few dollars on the table as a tip and waved to Pete behind the counter. I followed Rory down the block and around a corner, a little confused. I didn’t know of any dessert places this way, but I was willing to go on an adventure.

“We’re here,” she said, turning to me. She pointed up at the awning. I smiled. The bookstore, of course. “Anything you want, it’s on me, on one condition: you let me buy you a fresh, spanking new copy of _The Fountainhead_ to mark up.”

That’s a dangerous offer. I’ve been known to spend hours in a bookstore.

She smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Let’s shut the place down, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A-Tisket, A-Tasket and Lost & Found

I didn’t usually answer the phone, but something compelled me.

“Hi.” The ring of her voice brought my world to a halt. I sat up against my inertia.

Hi.

“What are you doing?”

Nothin’ worth mentioning. You? Why’d you call? She fumbled through an attempt at a justification. I’m glad you called, I said honestly.

“Yeah? Why?”

I’m reading that awful tome, and you’re going to walk me through all the reasons that this is supposedly worth suffering through.

“Ah, _The Fountainhead._ ” A laugh in her voice.

Yes. Your fault, and you will pay, I teased.

“I promise. Commit to it one more time and if it still is awful for you, I will make it up to you.”

I turned the bracelet over my fingers. Oh yeah?

“Yeah.”

Okay. I’m going to hold you to that. I wondered what ways she could make up a crazy 40-page monolog to me. I let my curiosity smoulder.

When she spoke again, her voice was warmer. “Are you making lots of notes?”

I let myself lie back. Yeah. I’ll have to give it back to you when I’m done. Maybe you can sift through my scribbles and tell me what astounding qualities I’m missing. Maybe you can sift through my scribbles and help me look at it through your azure lens. Maybe–What’s that school you go to like?

“Stuffy,” she choked out with a laugh.

I got that, what with the skirt.

“We don’t just read Romeo and Juliet, we have to stage an entire production with costumes and different interpretations based on time periods. We don’t just study chemistry, we have to read a biography of the uncle of the guy who discovered chemistry. I love it, but…” She huffed. “It’s just a lot.”

It’s gotta be a far step from Stars Hollow High.

“I’m doing well at Chilton,” she said, a little defensive.

Oh, I don’t doubt it. It just has to be a big culture shock.

She hesitated. “I guess you’d know a thing or two about that.”

I let a silence hang while I thought. In New York, I’d had a cautiously forged system, a network of familiar routes and tenuous alliances. Among my closest circle, I’d been the linchpin, my few skills keeping everyone in cigarettes and good luck. I found myself saying maybe.

“What would you be reading if I hadn’t made you read Ayn Rand?”

Made me? I thought on that. Late at night, I’m more prone filling the space between my ears to trashy garage punk. Helps me sleep.

“You’ll have to lend me something.”

Of course. I reach for Vonnegut or Melville when I’m trying to get tired. It’s meditative.

“Huh.” She mused, “When I’m sleepy, I like to leaf through _Letters to a Young Poet_. I always stumble across something different, something I missed.”

I feel the same way about _Leaves of Grass_. I’ve actually never read it in order.

“I love that you read poetry.”

My guts felt like balloon animals, a hundred knots all filled with helium.

“I mean, _Howl_ isn’t a surprise, but I like that you hang out with Walt on occasion.” She barreled on, “A lot of guys act like poetry is a girl thing or like it’s stupid. You think everything’s stupid, but you like poetry. I like that.”

I like you. I like that you like that about me. I like–suddenly, there was the distant, muffled sound of Lorelai summoning her daughter.

Hurriedly, “I gotta go.”

Of course. Talk to you later, Rory. I closed my eyes, the bracelet on my chest, just over the part that was pounding.

* * *

Just a few hours, probably. Maybe two days of work. Lorelai won’t pay much, but she’ll be grateful. Sorry it’s so last minute, I just told her you were looking to pick up odd jobs. She said you sounded like her man.

I stared at Luke, trying to read past the mask of apology he wore to hide the hope in his eyes. He wanted me to help Lorelai out.

But I’ll miss the book sale!

Luke leveled me a look and I headed upstairs.

* * *

I took a deep breath as I waited. I rocked my feet on the worn floorboards of the porch. Stalling? Oh, definitely. I knew that if Lorelai answered the door, she very well might send me packing. I saw a figure moving in the glass, so I braced myself.

“Hey.”

I tossed the CD. As promised.

She turned it over in her hands and held it up. “The Shags?”

Trust me. _Trust me._

“Okay.” She stepped aside and said, “So, you’re very punctual.”

I came from apartment hunting. It was miserable.

Her eyebrows went high. “You’re moving?”

I don’t know.

“A new place might be nice,” she offered. “More space. Might even get your own room.”

Let’s not talk about my room. Did you change your hair?

“So, segues not your thing, huh?” She looked uncomfortable, her blue eyes sliding all directions. “No. Well, I wear it like this a lot. Why?”

I shrugged. It just looks different. Smooth, maybe a different part, no too-tight ponytails or tortured braids and twists.

“Oh. Bad different?”

I couldn’t hide a half-smile, but Chaos reared her head.

“We just got a new alarm clock,” Rory supplied, throwing a thumb.

Lorelai appeared, the wide smile on her face fading into discomfort, my face growing stony without my permission. A tense silence fell.

“So, uh...” Rory started, clearly trying to remind her mother to behave. “Would you like to come in?”

Lorelai limply attempted some social graces. I followed them into the kitchen. Rory gestured. “You can sit, you know.”

No thanks. More uncomfortable false politeness until she finally just directed me to get started.

Rory looked disappointed. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

* * *

“Question,” her voice shot sharply from beside me. “You come over. You seem to have a very firm grasp of the English language. You put together several full sentences, even using a couple of words that contain two or more syllables, and then my mother appears and suddenly we need a thought bubble over your head to understand what you’re thinking. Can you tell me why that is?”

The verbal thing comes and goes.

“I would really appreciate it if you would try to get along with my mom.”

I took the Coke. It’s a little crazy to put lemon in–

“Stop it.”

I glanced over. Ooh, stern face. I picked up the bucket and started walking.

She huffed, “Look, I went out on a limb for you trying to get my mom to give you the benefit of the doubt, okay? So I don’t think it would hurt you to try to be nice.”

I turned to face her, peeling off my jacket. Why?

She hesitated. “Because she’s my mom and a friend of Luke’s?”

C’mon, Gilmore. Keep going. You know that’s not why.

“Jess, my mother is a great person,” she sighed. “She’s also my best friend in the world, so if you care about me at all, you will take that into consideration and you will be mildly polite to her.”

Ah, there it is. My smugness couldn’t keep itself off my face. What makes you think I care about you, Rory?

She stumbled and rambled, and something clenched in my chest as I smiled faintly. “I just meant that if... if you think of me remotely as the sort of person that you could occasionally stand to talk to then you will try to get along with my mom, that’s all,” she finished uncertainly.

My voice came softer, kinder. Okay.

She dared to hope.

I can’t guarantee that it will work–you know it’s an uphill battle–but I’ll try. For you. Because I care.

Her face was blank. “Thank you.” It was stiff.

I nodded. You’re welcome. I looked down. I should probably get to work. Step one in that being nice thing is probably doing a decent job here.

“Right.” She looked uncomfortable, then turned to go. “Sorry, go ahead.”

I was smiling.

* * *

I was doing the being nice thing. I was just swallowing cold egg roll when her cry stopped my heart.

“My bracelet–it’s gone!”

Lorelai tried to insert some calm, but Rory wasn’t having it.

“How could I do this? How could I lose that bracelet?” I heard the sounds of searching. I pinched my lips. I didn’t have the bracelet on me. I stood to watch, helpless.

“Dean’s bracelet,” Rory clarified. I felt the blood drain from my face. Of course it was from Dean. Of course he would go DIY.

I sat back down, but listened. I heard her explain the lie she told him to cover for missing it. And I heard her say she had no idea when she last had it. I went back to work, lost in thought.

* * *

I placed the bracelet as inconspicuously as I possibly could. So shines a good deed.

The silence of the house was oppressive, and I realized the house itself was unused to being so still. I tapped play on her CD player and turned the volume down. Tom Tom Club? Interesting. I picked The Shags up and placed it closer to the radio, just so it wouldn’t remain forgotten.

I turned my attention to her books. I let my eyes scan the shelf. When I spotted Rilke, I pulled it out. Hardback? I tested the cover. It was small enough for my pocket, but the edges would be too sharp to tote around all day. With a sigh, I ripped a piece of paper, flipped through the book to a section I would’ve written all over and tucked the makeshift bookmark in the gutter.

With a sigh, I let myself face it: the corkboard. An ode to her loftiest dreams, all wrapped in ivy. It felt like staring into the mind of the most twisted Harvard admissions officer to have ever lived. An article on a famous journalist speaking on campus, a too-cheerful pennant, three different brochures, six stickers, two maps… it left this gnawing sadness in my gut that I wouldn’t shake for days.

Did she ever dream of being in an all-girl punk band? Streaking in Paris at 3AM? Swimming the reefs or getting lost in the Sargasso Sea? Living rootless for a year on bread, wine and kindness? Writing the Great American Novel before 21 and becoming a modern day Fitzgerald on the New York party circuit? Finding out–

A picture on her bookshelf caught my eye. A tiny, blue-eyed thing with a pink plastic microphone appeared to be interviewing the illustrious Luke Danes. He looked uncomfortable, but his mouth was open, caught mid-sentence, gamely answering her questions. I smiled.

I turned off the CD player, giving the room a final glance. I turned and stepped out, but my heart sank.

Lorelei looked just as surprised as I felt. Did you get lost? No, I was looking at Rory’s books. Disbelief. I wanted to see if she had Franny and Zooey. She does. No more convinced than before. I was gonna get it for her. Flaty, that’s very nice of you. Okay, so I should probably get back to work. Mm-hmm, with a side-eye as I walked away. Shit.

* * *

You look good. You look so sad. Did he _yell_ at you?

“I’m fine.”

Talk.

“I lost my bracelet,” she started. Uh-huh. “Dean gave it to me.”

How thoughtful.

Her eyes were closed. “I’ve been all over town looking for it. I’ve been–” She inhaled and opened her eyes. “I’ve been to Lane’s, I’ve been to Luke’s, I’ve been to the bus stop, I’ve been to Miss Patty’s and I’ve circled Stars Hollow twice and nothing.”

There was a wobble in her voice. She looked down. “I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

It’s really that big a deal?

“What do you mean?” She looked offended.

I know it’s got a kind of I’ve been pinned, Bye Bye Birdie implication to it, but… it was just a bracelet.

“I don’t think Dean will see it that way,” she replied, sounding small.

I swallowed. You didn’t lose it on purpose.

“I know,” she started. “But things have been a little weird between us lately, and… you couldn’t care less.”

Oh, yes, I could.

“I just think Dean will read something into this.”

Should he?

Her eyes were on mine, but she blinked. “No.”

I let my gaze wander. I think you should keep looking.

Exasperated, defeated. “Where?”

It’s probably just laying in your room somewhere. Hint.

“I tore that room apart. It’s not there.”

Fine. Give up then. No biggie. Dean’ll just have to get over it. _Likely._

She pushed out a breath. “I’ll go look again.”

I watched her go. You do that.

Not a minute later, I heard her squeals. I pushed the trash down, frowning to myself.

But then Lorelai appeared. You took it, didn’t you? It sounded like a certainty. Lorelai couldn’t just be sure. She had to be _right_ , she had to be _righteous_. And I had to be an ass, even if I was just as unsure of what it meant as she was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's the Rub

Luke walked in with a sledgehammer. I jumped up, shocked.  
He drew back and put the fucking sledgehammer through the wall. The wall that was apparently paint, powder and paint stirrers, (but which would later prove to be far more formidable in the coming weeks.)  
That’s your room. He handed me the sledgehammer.  
In the following days, we each made messy attempts at taking out the wall, but Luke’s visions were grander than a bedroom. He wanted to expand the diner floor to add seating, a suggestion that I suspected was not his own. Support beams, load bearing, structural integrity, frames, 200 lines, casing, headers and joists were–astonishingly–above a glorified burger flipper’s pay grade.  
So the contractors came. Always in pairs: the guy who knew how to do the thing and the guy on hand to log an hour of labor. They came in heavy boots with countless tools, three very loud languages and an inescapable, suffusive cloud of dust.  
Plastic sheets went up in the diner while drywall came down in sprinkles and monsoons. I strode through the chaos with a hardhat on and an umbrella in my hand. As expected, Gilmores One and Two were right in the line of fire. I slowed my step as Lorelai dashed off to take a call.  
I popped open the umbrella and handed it to Rory. She looked up with a question in her eyes, but I gave her a nod and went on my way.

Can you get me some pickles? I’m out back here. Could use some more lettuce, too.  
I looked up at Cesar. He pushed a cheeseburger platter out on the pass. And this one’s ready to go out. I picked it up and glanced around. A nagging feeling.   
Speaking of burgers, had I seen Rory since breakfast?  
Cesar poked his head out. What?  
Never mind.  
I dropped the burger off and headed toward the stockroom. Luke was taking inventory. Have you seen–dodging–Lorelai? I meant to get the money from her for the gutters.  
Mmm, no. She’s at some fancy spa thing with her mom. Maybe all weekend? Rory’s staying in, probably starving to death. God knows those two don’t know what ovens do, aside from warming up tater tots and cocoa–  
I frowned, nodding. I grabbed the gallon of pickles and dropped it off, my mind elsewhere. I grabbed a pencil and an order pad, tapping the eraser distractedly as my mind wandered across town. I began scratching down an order: two burgers, two large fries, a couple side salads, a quesadilla, mac & cheese, some sort of sugary something…

Juggling boxes, I pressed the doorbell. From my toes, I felt an electric jolt of panic–I realized that I really, really wanted this to be a good idea. Was it too obvious that I had gotten the food in pairs? I had the forethought to make sure the tree was still at Doose’s, but what if he was coming this way? What–  
Delivery!  
“What are you doing here?” Not the greeting I hoped for. I gave the speech I had practiced so carefully the minute the idea began to materialize between my ears.  
She looked guilty. “I don’t need a care package. I ordered food from Sandeep’s.”  
Really. Plan on burning the house down afterwards? Only way to kill the smell. (She would later tell me her mother had said the same thing.) I pushed my way in.  
“God, how much food is in there?” She finished, “This could feed twelve.”  
I’ve seen you eat.  
“Fine, six.”  
Well, I–er, Luke wanted you taken care of. I decided to fish for information.  
“Just tonight.” We didn’t know that.  
“How come Cesar didn’t bring this over?”  
I volunteered. I went with a truth: I really did want to get out of there. Wait. Why? Did you think I wanted to come over here and see you?  
“No.” A little blush, a little back and forth.  
So… aren’t you going to eat? “Eventually,” she dodged. “I can heat it up.”  
Reheated french fries really suck. “Oh, they do suck,” she agreed, her lips forming a little pout.  
Eat, I encouraged her. I stood there, and she looked at me. “You’re still standing there.”  
Tip. “You want money?” I’ll take a fry, though. “Okay, yeah, have as much as you want.”  
Bingo. I pulled my jacket off.   
“What are you doing?” You said I could have as much as I want. That sounded invitation-like, I said, the two of us coming face to face.   
“You want to stay here and eat?” Beats bein’ at Luke’s. Plus, I want to be here. With you.  
And then, a voice. Ah, that friend again. The pistol–  
“This is Paris, we were just studying,” Rory supplied, fast and agitated.  
Don’t worry, I was just leaving, she said, sounding less snappy than I expected.  
“No.” Rory suddenly insisted, “Stay. For dinner. We have a ton of food and we can go over the notes more later.”  
I let my eyes slide up Rory’s frame, taking in her tense smile. I waited as she continued to make it clear that Paris was oh-so welcome.  
Interesting. “What is?”  
You think we need a chaperone? “No, I don’t.”  
You just invited one, I said, jerking my head towards Paris. She rambled a rationalization.   
I pushed my lips to one side as we listened to Paris speak Portuguese to her nanny. Our bodies just inches apart, Rory and I stood together, waiting. Her eyes flicked up to mine, a little question sitting on her lips, hanging slightly apart, pink like–  
Paris announced her delight again to be having mac & cheese.  
Rory snapped to attention, stepping around the table and opening containers with a sudden, intense efficiency. She jerked her head toward the fridge. “Get the condiments?”  
On it, boss. I grabbed ketchup and mustard from the fridge, fetched Tobasco from the wire rack above the counter, pulled salt and pepper from a cabinet. I then turned to fetch glasses and ice.  
I feel useless, Paris sighed, plopping into a chair as I buzzed around her to pour Pepsi.  
“Oh, don’t you fret,” Rory teased, “you get to pick the opening topic of conversation.”  
Her eyebrows flew up, and I shared a smirk with Rory at her discomfort.  
School?  
I snorted and Rory shook her head. “Pass.”  
Paris nodded, but her expression was one of disappointment. Books–does it read?  
I took a seat across from her and Rory settled in to my right, scooting her chair close to me, I noticed with some pleasure.  
“Yes, Jess reads,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “But you’ll have to be more specific with this crowd.”  
Clichés first: favorite book of all time? She speared some macaroni on her plastic fork and popped it into her mouth, making a little sound of contentment.  
You’ll have to be more specific, I parroted. Rory smiled at me, a little glint of enjoyment in her eyes.  
Paris eyed me with suspicion. Nonfiction, for starters.  
I pursed my lips. A challenge, indeed. I don’t really read much nonfiction, aside from punk histories. How to Win Friends and Influence People, I deadpanned. One of Paris’s eyebrows slowly crept up. The Gulag Archipelago.  
“My sixth grade earth science textbook,” Rory jumped in, without hesitation or irony in her voice.  
I swiveled my head and gaped at her. Whaaaat?  
“I can say with zero shame that it’s the one thing I ever stole from school,” she explained. I pictured young Rory donning a black ski mask. “It had these wonderful illustrations and had the most remarkable use of adjectives. For a textbook! I still sometimes pick it up just to enjoy the chapter on weather patterns and cloud formations.”  
I guess I barely remember my sixth grade textbooks. The hand-scrawled missives on the ripped-up cardboard where the covers should’ve been, however–pure poetry.  
“This is getting awfully close to school territory,” Rory interjected. “My fault. Let’s just move along to something snappier.”  
Fine. Next topic: is the Western canon bullshit?  
I smirked at Paris.  
“The greats are great for a reason,” Rory began. “It’s not the end-all, be-all of literature for the entire world, but within the English language, I think the classics are certainly worth study. It’s a foundation.”  
But there’s so much that’s outside what gets taught in a classroom that offers so much more–beyond just style and syntax, which if you ask me, is wasted on most people, anyway.  
Paris bobbed her head in agreement. God knows the mushy minds of the youth aren’t able to get between the lines of Shakespeare to extract any real meaning. Never mind an actual metaphor.  
“But style,” Rory gushed. “It’s so important! It’s where the heart is, the magic.”  
I looked at her. I get that.  
Charm, shmarm, Paris grumbled. Tell me that the Louises of the world properly appreciate the magic of E.E. Cummings?  
Rory leaned in and offered, “Louise is our classmate. Very pretty. Not very much with the books. More with the boys and lipgloss.”  
Ah, gotcha.  
Paris suddenly eyed me. Well, out with it. What do you read? Dr. Seuss?  
I started to deflect, but I realized that Rory had already begun defending my honor. Burroughs, Bukowski, Keroac–  
Oh, please.  
My eyebrows went up.  
A tragic waste of paper.  
I can’t believe you just said that.  
Well, it’s true, the Beats’ writing was completely self-indulgent. I have one word for Jack Kerouac: edit.  
Yeowch. That gets me in the gut. It was about shaking people up.  
The pistol was unmoved. They believed in drugs, booze and petty crime.  
“Well, then you can say that they exposed you to a world you wouldn’t have otherwise known. Isn’t that what great writing’s all about?”  
It was the National Enquirer.  
Yeowch again!  
Typical guy response. Worship Kerouac and Bukowski, God forbid you’d pick up anything by Jane Austen.  
Hey, I’ve read Jane Austen!  
Paris was surprised.  
Yeah, and I think she would’ve liked Bukowski.  
What are you doing?  
It took me a second. Salt and pepper dip, my favorite way to eat a fry since I was a toddler. When I saw Rory making it at Luke’s, I had nearly fallen out of my skin.  
Paris looked to Rory for confirmation that this was legit and not a prank. Rory leaned over and dabbed a fry without missing a beat. “It’s fast food gospel,” she confirmed.  
The phone rang.  
“Oh hey.”  
I watched her exit. It was The Tree.  
I made inroads in exposing Paris to some more food dares. A few shakes of Tobasco in your ketchup. Ooh, or maybe a shake or two of Old Bay on that mac?  
Load me up, she said, her face no doubt a mirror of Edmund Hillary laying eyes on Everest.  
How about you?  
I blinked at Paris.  
Can you appreciate the magic of E.E. Cummings?  
I pursed my lips. Nope.  
She started to roll her eyes, so I barreled on. It’s not that I think it’s gibberish or anything. I get where he’s headed. It’s just–  
Needlessly opaque?  
I felt a smile coming on. I can’t get into poetry. It’s kind of like… just say it already.  
I saw Paris glance in Rory’s direction and open her mouth as if to say something, but Rory interjected. “Wow, you know, I just noticed the time, and it’s getting really late.”  
It’s seven.  
“I know, but Paris and I still have a lot more studying to do. Jess, please thank Luke for me. It was really nice of him.” She was ushering me out, coat in hand.  
Who was that on the phone.  
“No one.” Too fast. Too tense.  
No one wouldn’t happen to be heading over here right now, would he?  
Paris was confused. What’s going on?  
“Nothing.” Still too quick.  
I laid out the truth.  
Why.  
Yeah, why?  
“You know why.” She was flustered. “Jess, I’m asking you as a friend, just please leave now.”  
You really want me to leave?  
“I really,” she exhaled, “wanna avoid a fight with Dean.”  
Do I count that as a victory or a tragedy? Fine, fine. Wait, one more goof. Both hands went to my shoulders to push me away. I backed into the door. Well, give him my best will ya–shit. My stomach was in my toes.  
Rory scrambled to make up an excuse. I pitched in to try to keep her story smooth, but I realized we were a little Vaudevillian, so I decided to poke The Tree. Make him mad at me.  
“Jess!”  
I walked away. I turned to watch them head inside. It would not be pretty. That was my fault.

“Hey Luke,” she called, a little musical lift in her voice.  
Did you find a nail in your food? I swear to God–  
“There’s nothing wrong with the food, Luke!” She smiled warmly. “I just wanted to thank you.”  
Shit.  
“For the care package. It was really sweet of you.”  
I jumped in. Maybe she wouldn’t notice his confusion. Her eyes followed him away. “Huh. Interesting.”  
I flipped through the tickets. You wanna pay?  
“I don’t think Luke knew anything about the food last night.”  
$12.50.  
She dutifully pulled out some cash. “Which means you lied about why you came over.”  
Any other topic please?  
“Now why would you lie about something like that?”  
Anything. The weather!  
“You wanted to come over,” she said, her eyebrow dancing in accusation.  
What’s your favorite sandwich? Childhood pets?  
“You’re squirming. I’ve never seen you squirm. It’s entertaining.”  
Oh yeah?  
“Yeah,” she said. We nodded at each other.  
After a beat, she finally relented. “What were you reading?”  
I showed her.  
“Whoosh! I think I read that last summer.”  
Third go ‘round for me, but it’s the first time I’ve tried just picking it up and jumping in anywhere. I never do that with books, but if there’s anywhere to try, it’s Finnegan’s Wake.  
She blinked. “Wait, you’ve never just picked up a book, flipped to a page and started reading?”  
I shook my head.  
“Not even when you know where the really good part is and you just wanna get into it?”  
It’s not some Harlequin Romance! I said it just to watch her blush, and she did. I’m a start-to-finish kinda guy.  
She raised an eyebrow.  
What?  
“I doubt that.”  
I frowned.  
She smiled, tight and wide, hands clasped behind her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't mentioned it, but I'd be lost without the ancient and venerable Crazy Internet People website. Their transcripts are a blessing.


End file.
